


snarling people have snarling dogs (dangerous people have dangerous ones)

by thinkatory



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Dark Jon, Do Not Archive (The Magnus Archives), Guilt, Jon's addiction to statements, Knifeplay, M/M, Mind Control, Mind Manipulation, Nonconsensual Compelling, Power Dynamics, Rapist Punished With Rape, Recreational Drug Use, Self-Hatred, Shameless Smut, Victim POV, rapist pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:20:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23839747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkatory/pseuds/thinkatory
Summary: Elias starves Jon for his own purposes, but starved dogs will find a meal.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Jonathan Sims, Jonathan Sims/Tim Stoker
Comments: 13
Kudos: 73





	snarling people have snarling dogs (dangerous people have dangerous ones)

**Author's Note:**

> This was really just intended to be unapologetic noncon by and against Jon, but for the purposes of internal logic I'll say Elias needs Jon to suffer without an actual statement for as long as possible for some kind of ritual. You know how it goes.
> 
> Also didn't intend for something like this to be my first TMA fic, but. Nothing for it.
> 
> Oh yeah! The title is a quote from The Casebook of Sherlock Holmes.

It's ten PM at the Archive when Tim stands over Jon's desk, weary, clearly ready to go out and convince drunk girls to go back to his sad little place. Tim drops the file onto the desk with a pointed flop, and says, tone flat, "I got what you wanted. Can I go?"

Elias has been holding out on him. It hasn't been easy. Jon looks up from where he's reached for the file, and contemplates Tim with the hot gaze he can't control, the one that wants to rip into each fragile part of the pathetic mundane mind to seize out the sweet stuff with glee. Tim stares back at him, steady, refusing to give ground.

"Don't," Tim says, an edge to his tone. It doesn't hide his fear. Jon actually admires his grit a bit now, past the ache in his chest that needs something _now, now, now._ But it's not enough to stop him.

"You hate me," Jon says, casual yet pointed.

"Seems like a strong word," Tim says, unmoved.

"You hate this place. This job." Obvious facts. "And you're stuck with _your Archivist._ Don't lie to me, I know you hate me."

"What does it matter to you if I hate you sometimes?" Tim fires back.

"Oh, just sometimes, then." Jon can't look away. Tim is like a butterfly pinned to a board in this moment, a precious piece in the Archive's collection. "Tell me. Tell me what you'd do. If you had all the power in the world, Tim, what would you do?"

Tim laughs, an utterly cynical sound. "I would leave this fucking place, what do you think?"

"I don't think that's your first move," Jon says, and stands, slowly. "Right here, right now, the Eye chooses _you_. And I'm in your way." His smile is barely there, and as arch as his words. "What do you do with me, if I have no power?" The next words come out hot, sharp, low: " _Tell me. Now._ "

Tim fights it, but then the words are yanked from him until he's finally surrendered. "I would make you feel as used and dead inside as I feel in this place every day, Jon, I would break you. You don't know what I'm capable of."

This is it, the silky feeling of being complete, and it only heightens with each phrase. "What sort of things?" he persists, nastiness arching in his tone along with the compelling ring. "What sort of things do you think about when you have to look me in the face and have to do exactly as I say?"

Tim looks terrified and numb all at once, some of that determination of his stripped away in the throes of the compulsion. "I would make you bleed," he says. Somehow, Jon can feel Tim's heartbeat race. He knows he's forcing Tim to face his own darkest thoughts that he would flippantly wave off to keep Jon from having a hold on him, that the images of these daydreams are flickering in Tim's mind as though he's in the center of each vivid instant. "I would choke you until you couldn't _talk_ , I would do what it took to make _the Archivist_ bleed like any one of us so you couldn't keep acting like you were better than me, Jon, I would destroy you."

Jon's pulse skips along, faster, the high of Tim unleashing the pure emotion of the experience into his mind finally filling that need he's had for days. Elias has been starving him, and starved dogs will find a meal. "Is that all?" he taunts, dry. "A few punches, choking me down?" He can feel more under the surface. "You're going to tell me all of it, Tim. Stop fighting. There's no point."

Tim shatters just a bit more under the pressure, cracks splintering in his mind as Jon presses harder. "I would hold you down and fuck you until you hated me like I hate you," bursts out of his mouth. "Your goddamned _dismissive_ fucking face finally seeing me there and there's nothing you can do about it, fuck you, fuck you."

Interesting. "What's it like?" Jon whispers, advancing on him. "What do you feel?"

Tim's expression is impossible to describe, some awful mix of virulent anger and desire and terror. "You give in," he says. "You want me."

"Oh, Tim," Jon says, vaguely amused even amidst all this. "You think everyone wants you."

"You want me," Tim fires back without hesitation. "Even you being you, Jon, you want _something_!"

It's too easy to lean into the pressure on Tim's will, and he can feel Tim start to break. Tim doesn't even move away as Jon closes the distance between them and seizes him by the shirt to shove him firmly into the desk. Tim's hands are trembling as Jon hovers over him, breaths mingling. "Projecting as usual," Jon whispers. "You're the one who _wants_. You want everything and everyone, everyone knows that. Does that fix your problems, getting what you want?"

"Jon," Tim says, barely audible.

Jon feels the power flood into him, and it's intoxicating. "Does it bring Danny back?" he murmurs, the perfect thumb pressed into the wound that refuses to heal.

Tim's breath shudders in his chest, and his mouth tightens. For once, he says nothing. In an instant Jon has the letter opener in one hand and yanks open the first few buttons of Tim's shirt, wasting no time cutting into Tim's now-bared shoulder. "All I want," Jon says, voice equal parts gentle and edges, "is to know the truth. You know that."

Blood rises to the wounds, the shapes that Jon instinctively carves into Tim's skin, and Jon's smile is thin, economical. "We'll find out the truth about you," he goes on. "What you really believe. What you really want."

"Jon," Tim starts.

Jon jabs the letter-opener under Tim's chin, and lifts his chin with the slightest motion. "What did you say before?" he says, thoughtful. "Oh, right." He crams the letter-opener into his pocket and presses his hand into Tim's already tensed throat, enough to allow him to shudder in a breath or two but still have to flinch to get air in. 

"How did you imagine this?" Jon murmurs. "That this would be a punishment?" He tips his head back slightly, increasing the pressure on Tim's neck; Tim presses up against him, desperate. "I think it's a relief," he muses. "To be free of having to think about surviving for once in your life. It's just enough to get that gasp of air. That's all you need right now. Don't you think? Easy, that."

"Please," Tim chokes out.

"Sometimes you have to face what's really going on." Something jerks in Jon's head, and he crushes Tim's throat with both his hands until the fight _just_ starts to fade in each frantic half-shove, then he releases Tim, who pulls in breath after breath in panic.

"Perfect," Jon says, a little breathless. "We're learning a lot today, aren't we? Now what?"

"I," Tim breathes.

"Right, right." Jon's thoughtful now. "Hm. What to do." He deftly undoes the button on Tim's trousers, then the zipper. "I have to say I'm not particularly skilled in this area."

"Jon." Tim's straining against the influence, against the moment, and Jon just looks him in the face, expression steady and calm, until he breathes out shakily. Jon pulls him up to his feet, easily pulls down his trousers and pants just enough, and turns him around, pressing his hands into the back of the chair.

"We'll learn together," Jon decides. Tim's fear is like an open vein now, one Jon can sense and taste, and he wastes no time in idly pressing his fingers into Tim's arse. At first it's near impossible, and Tim makes a strangled sound and starts to move away; Jon draws the letter opener with his free hand and presses the tip into Tim's neck.

"Remember," Jon says, faux-lightly, "we're learning what we really want today, aren't we?" Tim stays where he is, silent; then, much to his surprise, he leans back into the contact.

"Really," he says, soft, then pulls out his fingers. "Maybe. I don't know, honestly." He's feeling a little bit more like himself in that moment, puzzled, then he puts a bit more pressure on the letter opener. "Will you behave?"

"Jon," Tim says, and his tone is agonized, but it's impossible to tell in what direction. Jon shrugs and takes a moment to yank down his trousers just enough.

It's not technically hard to get hard, it's just that this isn't usually the situation. He works himself with a clinical indifference until it's satisfactory enough, then he speaks. "Well. I suppose this is it then."

"What." Tim's voice is soft, flat, uncertain.

"You're nothing." Whatever owns Jon's heart in that moment is dead certain of that. "I'm nothing. We're all nothing." He leans his cock against Tim's arse, his mouth to his ear. "Just do as you're told, Tim. Right?"

Tim says nothing. Jon supposes there's nothing for it than to do it. He applies only a touch of hand lotion onto himself for his own sake, then presses as hard as he can into Tim, his hand pressing Tim back onto his cock sharply. Tim jerks, his breaths sharp, but Jon wastes no time in idly experiencing what Tim wanted after all.

It's not something he'd have picked, but it's pleasurable enough when he's focused on the way Tim's mind is scattered into pieces, the near-surrender in his shoulders. It occurs to him a few minutes in to reach around Tim's hip to check, and much to his surprise Tim's cock is just _slightly_ erect.

"Hm," Jon muses, and strokes it in time with his thrusts, until Tim breathes out raggedly; Jon pulls his hand away and seizes the letter opener to press it to Tim's neck. "Did you think we were having fun?" he asks, a touch of pleasant acid in his tone.

"Oh god," Tim groans, and he breaks. The fear, the loathing, it rushes through Jon like a wave, and he tosses the letter opener aside, and pulls himself out to casually jerk on his cock with easy indifference until he's come on Tim's arse and back.

"Hmph," Jon says, nettled, and seizes a tissue to swipe away the come. "Well. Are we sorted, Tim?"

Tim is still for a long moment, then he says, "Can I move?"

That's it. That's what this was all about. Jon breathes it in. "Go on."

Tim pulls up his pants and trousers and turns to face Jon, an open blankness in his face. "I think we're sorted," he says.

"Then if you'll excuse me," Jon says, and tosses the tissue in the rubbish as he crosses to the other side of the desk. "Ugh," he adds, at the mess of the desk from the tussle.

Tim watches him. "See you tomorrow," he offers, tone flat, and turns to leave.

Jon raises his eyebrows at the door as it shuts behind Tim. It's only about ten minutes of sorting out his desk and skimming through what little work he has left to do before the impulse is too overwhelming to resist, and he shoves the chair back to go hunt Elias down.

It isn't hard to find him; the light is still on in his office. Jon knocks, leaning his head against the threshold, and perks his head up as Elias calls lazily, "Come in."

He opens the door, blinking as he sees Elias casually puffing on a vape pen. "Am I interrupting something?" he asks.

"Not at all," Elias says, amiable enough. "What can I do for you?"

Jon closes the door behind himself. "You're holding out on me," he starts.

"Did you want a hit?" Elias asks, easy. "Wonderful THC level, this."

Jon brushes past that, baffling as it is. " _Why are you starving me_?" he demands, pressing his hands flat on Elias's desk and leaning forward.

Elias doesn't seem remotely concerned. "You should know I always have my reasons," he says. "It's not time."

"It hurts," Jon grinds out. "Do you know what I've just done?"

Elias looks interested now. "What _did_ you do, Jon?" A smile is pulling on his lips. "Do tell."

Jon balks. "I fed," he snipes. "It wasn't enough. I need _statements_."

"It isn't time," Elias says, patient.

"I'm not your pet," Jon snaps. "You can't just choose not to give me what I need."

"You are absolutely my pet," Elias says, and hits the vape again, comfortable in his chair. "You should know that by now."

Jon's patience is beyond tested. "You need to give me access to statements. Now."

"Hm." Elias considers that. "No."

"Go to hell," Jon retorts, bristling.

"Send me there if you're so keen," Elias says, mild. "I'm not going to repeat myself again. Now, unless you'd like to join me, please go."

Jon's fists tighten into a piece of paper on the desk, and his instincts kick in. " _Tell me the code for the lock_ ," he presses Elias.

Elias's laugh is brief, and he lashes back out at Jon, his power gripping back at Jon and sending him back a step and a half, his face in his hands. "My poor starving beast," Elias says, amusement deep in his tone. "Even more foolish than usual."

"Elias." Jon's voice yanks out of him in soft agony. "Please."

"Why don't you tell me what you did?" Elias's voice is just as soft, tinged with sharp pressure. "What you're so ashamed of, that you would threaten me?"

Jon's breath shudders out, for just an instant. "Tim," he starts.

"I know," Elias says. "You know I know. I want you to say it."

Jon falls silent as he feels the memory rip through him, of what he'd done less than a half hour ago, of Tim's fallen shoulders and dipped tone as he retreated. He tries to steady his breath. "I broke Tim," he says. "Maybe not forever. But long enough."

"Good." Elias seems to mean it. "Very good, Jon."

"Is it?" Jon manages a sardonic tone. "Of course you'd think so."

"Did you come here for penance or vengeance?" Elias asks; when Jon looks up, he's fiddling the vape pen back and forth in between his fingers, gaze close on Jon. "What would you like me to do for you?"

Jon doesn't know. "Help me," he settles on, hating the words but needing to get them out.

"We're going to have a little talk," Elias says, and that edge to his tone, the one that ratchets up the influence, rises to draw blood. Jon's throat tightens as he feels Elias move through his mind. "I'm going to tell you something, and you're going to do as I say. Do you understand?"

"What are you going to do," Jon whispers, fingernails biting against his palms.

"I'm going to _help_ you, Jon. Just as you asked." Elias rifles through his memories, his thoughts, then pauses. "Ah," he says. "Why don't you tell me about Mr Spider, Jon?"

Jon flinches. "I," he gets out.

"I can bring it all back," Elias says, tone casual, silky. "Remind you of the consequences of the actions of our sort of people. What those statements you desperately need really mean for the people on the ground. Can't I? Would that help you come to terms with what's going on in your head?"

What a question. "No," Jon says, blunt, ragged.

"I think you need to be punished." Elias leans forward and sets his vape pen down on the desk, a deliberate motion. "You don't snap at the hand that feeds you."

"I need it." Jon is a mere step from begging. "Please don't do this. Just help me."

"Oh, come, now," Elias says; Jon's face burns as he feels Elias's gaze hot on him. "You _fed_ on him, you're sated for the next few days. You didn't come here to get statements. You came here to have me sort you out. Let's dispense with the lies, shall we? They're easy enough to see through even if I didn't already know."

"Soon," Jon tries. "Soon, you'll let me – "

"In good time," Elias says, tone mild again. "Until then, when the high fades, you're going to fall apart. I need you steady, to make it for the next… two weeks. Can you do that for me?"

Can he? "Elias," he presses.

"I'm not in the mood to hear begging," Elias clarifies. "You'll take what I give you. Penance. Nothing else."

Jon's heartbeat runs erratically, a burst of terror mixed with relief rushing through him. "What do I do," he asks, quiet.

Elias makes a sharp gesture for Jon to come to him, around the desk, and Jon follows, trying to keep panic from overwhelming the guilt that he needs to purge before it hits him full-bore. Without a single move, Elias touches gently into Jon's mind to flash _that book_ into his mind's eye, and he flinches. "Kneel," Elias says, and Jon drops to his knees slowly.

Elias strokes Jon's face, then seizes him by the hair and yanks his head back to make eye contact. "Oh, Jon," he muses, tone drenched with soft amusement, and his fingers tighten until Jon's breaths are sharper in his chest. "You won't enjoy this."

"I didn't expect to," Jon says, breathless.

"Good." Elias releases him with a slight push and moves his chair away just enough to start to yank down his trousers. "Tim nearly did, you know. He wants you. Just a bit."

"Oh." Jon's throat tightens as Elias bares his cock. "Are we going to talk about Tim right now?"

"Maybe we will." Elias's fingers reach into Jon's hair again and pull him between Elias's thighs. Jon's breath catches before he gives in and moves his mouth onto Elias's cock.

"So," Elias starts, contemplative, as Jon follows the motion as guided by Elias's hand tight in his hair. "Do you think it was you that liked hurting Tim? Do you think that was _Jonathan Sims_ who chose to fuck him not because you like to fuck but because you wanted him to _feel something_ , that you were better than him?"

Guilt breaks through him, and he presses his eyes even more tightly shut as Elias's cock stiffens in his mouth, shoved back even further near his throat. He doesn't know. Elias knows, but he doesn't.

Does he? Does he know? Can he handle the truth?

"Because," Elias says, a little breathless as he presses his cock in and out of Jon's mouth, "you wanted to feel some kind of power, didn't you? You feel so _powerless_ these days, and you never did like Tim."

That's not true and Jon knows it. He doesn't _dislike_ Tim. He just...

Shit. Jon shudders, his mouth tightening around Elias's cock, and Elias exhales sharply. "Oh, Jon," he says. "You're my favorite, did you know that?"

It's probably a lie, and Jon doesn't _want_ to be Elias's favorite, he doesn't want to be here right now, he doesn't want Elias's dick filling his mouth, but doesn't he deserve all this? Didn't he surrender everything when the statements started to feel _so good_ , and refuse to pull back?

Gertrude Robinson wouldn't have been here, now, so degenerate, so disgusting.

"Good," Elias murmurs. "Oh, that's wonderful."

Jon doesn't know if Elias is talking about his mouth or his thoughts or both, but it doesn't matter. He shudders again, and Elias groans, thrusting his cock deep into Jon's mouth until he gags.

_Please. Please make it stop._

No. This is fine, this is what needs to happen. Then it's all even, then he'll completely understand what he's done. This is what Elias does, this is what the Eye does; it makes you understand.

Elias grunts, a very un-Elias-like sound, then Jon tastes come on his tongue, all in his mouth, and he hates it. He wants to move back but Elias holds him firm until he's done, even after. "Is that better?" Elias asks, easy.

Is it? Jon doesn't know. He meets Elias's gaze, not knowing what Elias sees in his face from the awful mix of feelings coursing through him.

"Good," Elias answers to whatever Jon just showed him, and releases him. Jon pulls away, wiping his mouth, and Elias gestures for him to stand.

Jon doesn't know what to do, until Elias says, "Go. Sleep." Jon breathes out slowly, his breath still a little battered from the force of Elias's cock and the truth it somehow gave him, then Elias goes on: "Or, at least, try."

The smile on Elias's face is barely there, but it's enough. Jon wants to hate him, but he can't. He seizes a tissue from Elias's desk and wipes his mouth, tossing it away in a motion that reminds him again of what he did to Tim, then turns back to Elias, who's pulling his trousers back up.

"Yes?" Elias asks, easy. "I have work to get back to, you know."

"While high?" Jon is surprised he's managing sarcastic banter, but some things can't be completely destroyed in one's mind and heart.

"More often than you'd think. Heavy is the head, et cetera." He shrugs. "Go on."

Jon rolls his eyes and stalks out of the office, head full of terrible notions, heart heavy with truth.

He somehow manages to sleep, and dreams of Elias's fingers in his hair pressing him to his knees as his heart beats a scattered rhythm of desperation.


End file.
